Murder in Aix (The Maggie Newberry Mystery Series Book 5)

by Kiernan-Lewis, Susan

  Maggie could hear Danielle’s high-pitched voice on the other line and it was all she could do not to scream, Send help! Over the phone line and through the muddied vowels of the southern country dialect, Maggie was just able to make out the conversation.

  “Florrie? I am Danielle Alexandre, a friend of your aunt’s. I am so sorry to have to tell you this but your aunt has passed this afternoon.”

  Maggie watched Florrie lick his lips again. If she had been expecting sorrow or remorse or any other human emotion connected to the death of a loved one, she was disappointed.

  “What time?” he blurted out.

  “Excuse me?”

  “What time did she die? Exactly.”

  There was a pause on the other line as Danielle attempted to understand this most unlikely response.

  “The doctor isn’t here yet to pronounce time of death officially,” she said.

  “Yes, officially! So she isn’t dead until he arrives to officially pronounce her dead.”

  Holy crap. Florrie was counting on Lily outliving Annette so he would be the one who inherits, not Michelle. Maggie glanced at the door to the bar and saw the rain coming down in sheets.

  “I know I don’t know you very well, Monsieur Tatois,” Danielle said icily on the other line, “but can I ask why, after all those years of attentive care to your aunt, you did not come to her this Sunday of all days? She asked for you repeatedly.”

  Maggie grabbed the back of one of the café chairs as the first solid contraction hit her full force and without warning. She gasped with the impact of the pain and Florrie turned to watch her. He hung up the phone without answering Danielle.

  “You are alright, Madame?”

  This. Is. A. Nightmare. Maggie thought as the agonizing spasm slowly receded, allowing her to get her breath back again. She looked at Florrie and knew the only possible way out of all of this was to make him believe that she didn’t know, that she didn’t suspect. It was all she had.

  She debated asking him to call an ambulance, but if he hesitated the game was up. Because what possible reason could he have for not? Other than the one that would surely leave her very dead. The only safe alternative she had was to stall for time by allowing him to drive her—as seemed to be his plan—and then just hope for the best.

  “You know? I think I’m not really all right, Florrie,” Maggie said, easing into a chair. “I think I may actually be in labor at the moment. So, if instead of running me home you could drop me off at the nearest emergency room, that would really be awesome.”

  “Labor?” Florrie frowned and gawked at her enlarged form as if he hadn’t noticed before.

  Should she ask about the phone call? Should she ask about his aunt? Maybe she could tap into some reservoir of grief or human feeling—surely he had some, he’d been a dutiful loving nephew for decades before he decided to become a cold blooded mercenary killer. Maggie remembered stories of kidnapped victims who claimed that attempts to humanize or personalize themselves with their captors worked well in getting them, if not to outright release them, then to at least delay in killing them. And when you’re being held captive by someone who wants to kill you, delays are what it’s all about.

  Another agonizing stitch began working its way up her diaphragm and she tensed in anticipation.

  That is, unless you’re about to have a baby, in which case delays don’t exist. Maggie squeezed her eyes shut and let a low moan escape at the same time she deposited a small puddle of water beneath her chair. She looked at Florrie in mounting horror. It was do or die time now. There would be no turning back.

  Her water had just broken.

  * * *

  Grace glanced at her watch. She had been walking nearly an hour, but guessed she was still only a couple of miles closer to home. And warmth. She had been afraid to pull her cardigan from the backseat of the Renault. She knew it was probably silly. Hell, she had been afraid to get her cellphone or her purse out of the car. Maggie and Laurent’s mas was still a good three miles away, at least. At least the sun was still up to counter the chill that pierced her as she walked away from the car on the deserted road. Was it an accident? Was it deliberate? How would Laurent retrieve the vehicle? He and Maggie only had the one car. Was she being paranoid? Probably.

  She rubbed the goose bumps from her arms and quickened her pace, hoping the exercise would help to warm her. She found herself wondering what car Laurent was using today since she had the Renault?

  When she got to Domaine St-Buvard, she intended to walk in the front door, kiss her baby, and go straight upstairs for the most heavenly, hottest and intensely luxurious bubble bath of her life. Surely, dear sweet Jean-Luc could watch Zou-zou for another hour after she got home?

  She felt the first cold drops of rain on the back of her neck.

  * * *

  Maggie clutched the arms of the wooden chair and pushed herself to her feet. She looked at Florrie, who was staring at the puddle beneath her chair with disgust.

  Maggie’s mind raced. Grace had dropped her off nearly thirty minutes ago. Domaine St-Buvard was thirty minutes from the bar. That meant Grace was home by now. If, please God, Laurent was also home, they would know something was wrong. That meant she had to hang on—and not get in that car, where Florrie could take her to God knows where—for the thirty minutes it would take for Laurent to get back to the bar.

  Correction. The way Laurent drives, I just need to hang on fifteen minutes.

  “I have to use the facilities,” Maggie said, holding her purse to her chest and eyeing the path past Florrie to the toilets.

  “Clearly, Madame,” Florrie said, his face twisted in a grimace of distaste.

  Thank God for common courtesies, Maggie thought as she edged past Florrie. Even in the middle of a planned murder, it seems most civilized people will make allowances for a call of nature. She began walking down the hall, registering the increased level of discomfort in her stomach as she did. With the buffering amniotic sac gone, she felt her bones grinding against each other as she moved. She put a hand out to touch the narrow wall in the hallway for support, her eyes going inadvertently to the hole Michelle had put in it last week.

  “Do not be long,” Florrie warned from the head of the hallway.

  “I won’t,” Maggie said, hearing her voice shake. She reached the bathroom and stumbled inside, feeling the harbinger of another pain beginning to creep up on her. She shut the door. Above the sink was a mullioned window that opened outward. Maggie twisted it open and looked out. The rain was still coming down hard. There was only scrub and bushes in the back. And one lone sedan parked on the grass. There were no houses or comforting lights to indicate there would be anyone to hear her screams. Escape through the window was unthinkable. She couldn’t fit through it at her present size. And there was nowhere to run to even if she could.

  Her only hope was to stay in here as long as she could to give Laurent time to get here. Surely, Grace was home by now? It was pouring rain. Laurent wouldn’t be in the fields in this kind of weather. Surely, he would be home.

  No matter what, Maggie knew she couldn’t let Florrie get her in his car.

  “Madame?” Florrie’s voice was loud and Maggie jumped. He must be right on the other side of the door.

  “Yes?” she said, her breath coming in short pants as her fear and the pain of the next contraction began to bear down on her. “Just a m-m-moment!” She felt the cold smooth curve of the sink behind her as she instinctively backed into the furthest point in the small room. What time was it? How much longer would she need to stall before help came?

  Oh, please let help be coming.

  At the moment the contraction reached its peak and Maggie sank to her knees to endure it, she heard the crash of splintering wood and, out of the corner of her eye, saw Florrie’s form fill the doorway. A piece of wood had shot under the hem of her long tunic as she knelt on the filthy floor. When she felt the pain receding, she steadied herself against the sink and looked up to see
Florrie rolling up his sleeves.

  “I’m afraid these old doors sometimes stick,” he said dully as he approached.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The driveway that led to Maggie and Laurent’s home on the far side of the village of St-Buvard was long and twisting. Grace stumbled down the length of it, encouraged by the imposing beckoning closeness of the tall mas itself, cold and wet, her heels stinging with broken blisters, and desperate to go to the bathroom. She thought of how they would all laugh at this night—after she’d showered and been bolstered by a nice gin and tonic. During half of her walk in the rain she had expected Maggie and Laurent to appear behind her on their way home.

  It hadn’t occurred to her that she would walk the whole rest of the way in the pouring rain. She saw that the terrace light was on and that surprised her, because as dark as the weather had made the sky, she thought it was still just late afternoon.

  She came to the front door and realized she had left the door keys on the ring that was still attached to the abandoned Renault. She grabbed the heavy brass doorknocker with fingers so numb and cold she could barely use them and banged three sharp whacks on the front door. She ran her hands up her bare arms and waited, relieved to hear footsteps coming across the foyer to let her in. A feeling of foreboding needled into her mood as it occurred to her that the footsteps sounded too heavy to be those of the wiry little Frenchman, Jean-Luc.

  The door swung open to reveal Laurent standing there in the doorway looking at her with surprise. Grace stared at him. She was having trouble putting her thoughts together, but seeing Laurent on the other side of this door was wrong.

  Very wrong.

  Laurent seemed to put it together within seconds of seeing her standing there, wet, shaking and alone on his doorstep. The faint smile he’d opened the door with dissolved instantly. “What happened?. Where is Maggie?”

  “What…what are you doing here?” she asked. “You’re supposed to be meeting Maggie at…you know, the bar at…” Grace shook her head.

  What was Laurent doing home?

  Laurent was by her side in a flash, his large warm hand on her arm. “Where is Maggie, Grace?” A thunderclap underscored his words and she jumped and looked frantically toward the inside of the house.

  “She got a text from you saying to meet her at…at that guy’s bar. Florrie’s.”

  He looked out into the storm. “A text?” She could see he wanted to move, to go.

  “On your phone,” Grace said, now violently shivering on the doorstep. “D-d-didn’t you send her a text? It said Meet me at Florrie’s. I have great news. I left her there. It’s…more than ninety minutes ago now.”

  He stepped out into the rain and then turned back to her. “Where is the car?”

  “It…it ran out of gas on the other side of St-Buvard.”

  “Ran out of gas?”

  “Out of petrol. Yes. I left it on the side of the road. I walked here to…Laurent, you didn’t send the message?”

  She could see his mind was whirling as he processed what he was hearing. “I lost my phone,” he said. “I sent no message.”

  “Laurent, she’s in trouble,” Grace said, feeling the panic rising up inside her throat. She stepped into the foyer and saw Jean-Luc standing there. She nodded at him and then looked around him for the child.

  Jean-Luc interpreted her look and answered quickly. “She is asleep,” he said. “Don’t worry. She is dead to the world.”

  Laurent stepped back into the house and went to the telephone. He picked up the receiver and put it back down. “The phone’s out,” he said and held his hand out to Grace. “Your phone, Grace.”

  “I…I left it in the car,” she said wishing she had gotten blown up rather than have to tell Laurent that.

  He turned to Jean-Luc. “Is Danielle home yet with your car?”

  Jean-Luc shrugged helplessly. “She hasn’t called in a couple of hours. I didn’t know the phone was out. She might be.” He pulled out his house keys and handed them to Laurent who took them and plunged into the night without another word.

  Grace stood in the foyer shivering and dripping onto the slick hall tiles.

  Jean-Luc stood in the open doorway and then closed it against the night. He turned to Grace and gestured awkwardly to the stairs. “If you want to take a bath,” he said. “I’ll keep an ear out for the child.”

  * * * *

  Florrie held Maggie’s elbow with one hand and an umbrella with the other as he helped her into the passenger’s side of his Peugeot sedan. The hand on her arm was as fierce and pinching as a manacle. The pains had started coming stronger and more often now that her water had broken, and Maggie’s mind raced trying to alternately think of what happened next in this stage of the labor and delivery and how in the world she was going to get away from the man who wanted to kill her.

  Clearly, by removing her, Florrie must have hopes of keeping his bar clean. Maggie knew it was always tricky cleaning up after a murder, and although she wasn’t absolutely positive of the criminal evidence advances in backwater France, she had to assume they at least had access to Luminal and other basic forensic investigating tools. She decided to look at it as a good sign. It meant he still had something to lose. It meant he intended to try to continue to live in the community after everything he’d done. Maybe it meant he wasn’t going to kill her.

  “I’m sorry you had to be involved in all this,” Florrie said as he started the car and backed it out of the parking lot.

  Do not let him confess to you while you’re helpless and two centimeters dilated, Maggie thought feverishly. He’ll have no reason not to kill you.

  “Oh, not at all,” she said. “You know, I’m only trying to help my friend, Julia. Well, you know Julia, of course, through Jacques, and…” The pain heralded its advent with a slow but sinister preview and Maggie found herself clutching the car door handle trying to push against it in any effective way she could.

  “Another pain?” he sounded almost cheerful, certainly unconcerned. Not a good sign. “No, I guess I was apologizing about today,” he said. “I hate all of this and I do feel like you are an innocent party to a certain extent.”

  Do not let him reveal anything incriminating!

  “Please!” she gasped, wiping the sweat off her forehead from the last contraction. “Think nothing of it. Laurent is always saying I poke my nose in where it doesn’t belong.” Perhaps reminding him of Laurent will shame him into not doing what ever it is he’s thinking about doing?

  “I just wanted to say I’m sorry,” Florrie said.

  A part of her wanted to ask him for what? to stop this agonizing game of cat and cockroach. But she didn’t dare.

  “Not at all,” Maggie said. “I’m just grateful that you were here to help me today. Laurent will be so grateful, too. We’re both just so—”

  “Annette said you knew. About me.”

  No! No! No! Nooooooooo…..

  “I have no idea what you’re talk—”

  “I don’t think she really knew herself until the end, but I’m sure she probably suspected.”

  The next pain hit Maggie without warning and she allowed the scream to escape and careen off the interior of the little car without attempting to temper it. What is this kind of pain that’s so unholy that you can scream your damn head off and not even care?

  She could hear from somewhere in the background recesses of her mind that Florrie was still talking. Incredibly, he seemed to be trying to talk over Maggie’s moans and intermittent shrieks. Was it possible he was so focused on his own trauma that he was unaware of her writhing agony in the seat next to him?

  “It wasn’t a crime of passion,” he was saying, staring thoughtfully at the road in front of him through the windshield. “That’s what gets me. Most people can forgive that. But I’m not like that. It’s hard for me to get worked up.” He laughed. “A part of me envied Michelle for her ability to feel so strongly.” He shook his head. “Crazy bitch.”

&n
bsp; Maggie was so relieved from the respite from the last contraction that, while she registered that Florrie was confessing to her, a part of her just didn’t care any more.

  * * *

  Grace picked up the phone again.

  “Is it working?” Jean-Luc asked from the kitchen. He poured a glass of wine.

  She shook her head, then walked over to the kitchen counter and took the glass he held out to her. She noticed a stark discoloration on the beautiful granite counter top behind him and wondered idly when that had happened. “It’s unusual for Zou-zou to sleep so long,” she said. “Or so soundly. We usually have to tiptoe around when she’s taking her nap.”

  He shrugged and glanced at the clock on the wall. “I should go now,” he said. “If Danielle is home, Laurent will have her car. Or at least her cellphone.”

  “And if she isn’t home?”

  “Our phone lines are newer than the ones at Domaine St-Buvard.

  “I thought it was the storm that caused the lines to go out?”

  Maddeningly, he shrugged again. “Laurent should be able to call from there.”

  “Who will he call?” Grace said, sitting down on the couch. She had taken Jean-Luc up on his offer to watch for the baby to wake while she showered and dressed in dry clothes. Now that she was dry and had a glass of wine and a piece of Laurent’s quiche in here, she was ready to start worrying again. She stood up and glanced toward the stairs.

  “How long has she been asleep?” she asked.

  He shrugged again, that quintessential movement of every Frenchman since the beginning of time, Grace thought with building irritation.

  “How long is that, Jean-Luc?” She could see he didn’t look comfortable answering and that prompted an unexpected rush of concern in her. “What is it you aren’t telling me?” she asked. Perhaps it was the nascent terror building over Maggie’s situation—Where was she? Who texted her? Why hadn’t she called? Who disabled the car —but Grace realized that she found Jean-Luc’s obvious attempts to dissemble a billboard invitation to totally lose her shit.